


Strained

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is probably not the best way to work out pulled muscles, but Porthos isn't complaining, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strained

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt of "domesticity". With these two, I figured this was as close to 'domestic' as they get, all things considered. But just wanted to portray that level of trust and familiarity that often associates the concept of 'domesticity'. I realize it's kind of a vague fill of the prompt, but hey... it means portamis massages/porn, so hopefully no one can complain too strenuously.

“Fuck,” Porthos says, for about the third time in a minute, which he probably doesn’t think is the least bit extreme or extravagant, and he completely ignores it when Aramis tuts lightly behind him. “Fuck,” he says again for good measure, and glances over his shoulder to smile a little at Aramis, just in case he’s about to start worrying, but who merely lifts his eyebrows. “It fucking hurts.” 

“I’m fairly certain you’ve dealt with worse, my dear whining friend,” Aramis chides, although his tone is affectionate despite the scolding. 

“Hm,” Porthos grunts, and kneads his hand against his lower back, frowning. 

Aramis smacks his hand away lightly and shoos him. “Go on, strip and lie down. If you insist on straining your muscles, you have to deal with the consequences.” 

“I’d like to hear your logic on how you massaging sore muscles is a consequence,” Porthos says lightly but then obeys Aramis when he shoots him a pointed look, grinning sloppily at him and tugging at his coat, undoing the buttons and sliding it off easily from his shoulders, untucking his shirt and tossing that aside along with it. 

“I’ll make it unpleasant if you continue to give me cheek,” Aramis threatens, but he’s grinning as he follows after Porthos. He chases after him with his hands, touching his shoulders and giving a perfunctory squeeze. “For once, my dear friend, be patient.”

“I’m always patient,” Porthos protests. 

Aramis scoffs, louder than intended, which earns him a good-natured and scolding, if begrudgingly bewildered, look from Porthos. 

“You wouldn’t know patience if it came up and took five minutes to bite you in your backside,” Aramis tuts again. He squeezes his shoulders again and then pushes him towards the bed. “Go, go.” 

“I’m going, I’m going,” Porthos mocks, rolling his eyes and then flops rather gracelessly onto the bed, rolling onto his back and undoing his belt in a way that is both matter-of-fact and forward, but also somehow unwittingly sensual that causes Aramis’ attention to catch and linger as Porthos shimmies out of his breeches and undergarments, kicking them off his feet until he’s naked, cringing only a little when he twinges the pulled muscles in his leg and back. 

And he’s naked and brilliant and Aramis reminds himself to behave. (At least for now.) Porthos rolls onto his stomach, tucking his arms together and resting his chin on his folded arms, and the long expanse of skin – from neck to his delightfully curling toes – is sinfully blemished with scars. Scars that Aramis has formed himself, with needle and care. And yet there’s something so beautiful in the blemishing – they’re hardly flaws at all, only a sweet mosaic of the life Porthos has lived, somewhat cruel but overarching triumphant in his ability to smile and live, despite his adversity. And Porthos, thoroughly unromantic darling that he is, would only scoff at Aramis waxing poetic about scars, so he gets to work instead, preparing the salve for Porthos’ sore muscles and setting them on the bed, shrugging out of his own coat and rolling up his sleeves. 

It’s sweltering hot today, a typical summer in Paris, and already Aramis feels overly warm as he finishes rolling up the sleeves, grateful that he wore a more flimsy of his shirts today, since the air from the open window – stifling hot, though it is – provides some relief when it billows into the open folds of his shirt. He almost considers stripping down entirely before working – but he knows he’ll only get distracted, and, his own desires aside, he truly would rather make it so Porthos was in less pain. 

The salve has the overly pungent scent of mint that’s particularly assaulting on Aramis’ senses, but it isn’t necessarily an unpleasant odor, either. He coats his hand in the thick ointment and nudges his knee against Porthos’ inner thigh, having him spread his legs a little – which Porthos obeys silently. Aramis, always the gentleman, focuses on his knee and only sweeps up over Porthos once his friend has settled into a comfortable position. And then he presses his fingers into the lower end of his injured thigh. 

Porthos groans, low and deep and, most likely, completely involuntary. All the same, Aramis grins rather triumphantly as he glides his fingers over the sore leg, back and forth, not even massaging so much as touching. He drags his fingertips across his leg and then opens his palm, pressing it flat against the muscle. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Aramis says, pressing in deep.

Porthos grunts and then snorts. “Like you would.” 

Aramis tuts. “You’re far too confident for a man naked in my bed, and with pulled muscles to boot.” 

“You don’t get to take the credit for the pulled muscles,” Porthos insists, and laughs a moment later, shimmying on the bed in a way that’s entirely too enticing and he _knows_ it, too. 

“Perhaps not, but those other brutes in the practice yard just encourage your nature for showing off.”

“Look who’s talking,” Porthos laughs. “Getting your overly enthusiastic hands on me is hardly going to help.” 

“I’m insulted, my friend – I only take the most extreme care with you,” Aramis says in mock outrage, and digs his thumbs into Porthos’ leg, smiling a little at Porthos’ delighted hiss.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Just don’t want to damage the muscle further,” Aramis returns, cheerfully enough, but knowing that he will be careful – the last thing he’d want is to make the injury worse. Porthos is reckless, so when it comes to his injuries, direct but gentle care is necessary. 

“So long as I can walk tomorrow, I don’t care,” Porthos mutters. 

Aramis grins wickedly and slides his hand up purposefully his thigh. “Porthos, please. I’m always so very gentle. You’re the brute disguised as a gentleman.” 

Porthos snorts again, lifting himself up onto one elbow so he can turn to give him an exasperated look. Aramis grins at him and waggles his eyebrows a few times just to get Porthos to laugh – deep and rumbling, as he shakes his head. 

“Now, go on,” Aramis says lightly. “Relax.”

Porthos nods and hums his consent, and lays his head back down on his arms, cheek turned so that Aramis can’t help but see the way his brow furrows when Aramis starts massaging his knuckles into his thigh. He can see the hitch of his upper lip for half a moment that betrays how much pain he’s in and the mirth in Aramis’ smile slowly fades away as he focuses on relieving the pain of these muscles. 

He presses his fingers to the unyielding muscle and slides along it, salve slick against his hands, moving down from upper thigh to his knee and back up again. The sound Porthos makes is part moan and part growl, hitched with the slightest note of pain. Aramis watches his face for any signs of unrelenting pain – although knowing that Porthos is more likely to shout if it becomes too much, as is his way – and after a moment, Porthos opens his eyes and watches Aramis in turn. 

He pushes his way deeper and up, clear up towards Porthos’ backside, where his hand slides too fittingly into the crease between thigh and buttock. Porthos lifts one eyebrow and Aramis clears his throat and pulls his hand away, not able to clamp down on the small smile that flits across his lips as he works. 

“Shall I do both legs just to be even?” Aramis asks pleasantly, digging his knuckles into the knotted muscle, the salve starting to warm beneath his ministrations, the pungent scent of the salve thick enough that Aramis feels as if he could taste it. He presses deep into the muscle as he shifts up onto his knees to press more of his weight into it. 

Porthos is smiling and looks as if he might answer, but the deeper movements cause his face to twist up, eyes squinting and lips pulling back into a small scowl as he tenses up.

“Breathe,” Aramis commands, digging in deep. “If you don’t breathe, it’s useless.” 

Porthos release a shaky, stuttering breath. And then takes another deep breath, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly, shakily, and jostles Aramis when he spreads his thighs a little more beneath him. 

“This is what you get,” Aramis says, voice purposefully light to hide his true concern, “for showing off to the regiment. Picking up grown men and throwing them like it’s nothing is bound to catch up sooner or later.”

“It wasn’t that,” Porthos moans. “I can handle all you lightweights.” 

Aramis scoffs and rubs up, the pain of the deeper pressure sweeping across Porthos’ expression – not even bothering to try to hide it from Aramis. 

“Then what was it?”

“Twisted funny,” Porthos answers, stubborn as ever. 

Aramis rolls his eyes, and dips his thumb down the inside of Porthos’ thigh, hand squeezing firmly as he slides it back down and up again, working at the muscle. After all this, the knot eases a little, but there’s still a long way to go – plus Porthos’ back. When he hits a particularly knotted up spot, Porthos shudders and tries to squirm away before Aramis clamps down on him, keeping him in position.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says quietly. “It hurts now, but this will make it better.” 

“It’s fine,” Porthos answers, equally as quiet. He doesn’t open his eyes or shout, just shivers a little when Aramis lays his hands on his thigh again, squeezing and kneading. “It’s not the first time you’ve done this, after all.”

“It seems I’m always the one to take care of you,” Aramis agrees with a small shrug, kneading to the top of his backside, thumb moving along the crease between upper thigh and soft backside and sweeping down his inner thigh. He can’t keep the edge of pride from his voice when he adds, “I’m _very_ good at getting people to relax.”

Porthos snorts, and smiles through the pain when Aramis digs his thumbs into the knot of his muscle again. 

“Yeah,” he manages, voice hitched as he remembers to breathe, long and shuddering. “Yeah, you do.” 

Aramis lifts one hand away, wiping his forearm against his face, clearing away the sweat collecting there. It really is too damn hot, and he knows his face is pinked from both sun and exertion. Paris summers are delightful in that women are more likely to dress less modestly, and that is something Aramis always enjoys, but it always leaves him feeling rather unpleasantly sticky and overly hot. There’s certainly a line between the looseness of the dress code and it being so hot that no one feels like doing anything, much less enjoying Aramis’ particular skills. 

Porthos is warm beneath him, as well, and there’s a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead and to the planes of his back as he shifts beneath Aramis’ touches, spreading his thighs a little more, hitching his knee up just slightly to give Aramis better access to his muscles – and Aramis can spy that, already, Porthos is half-hard. 

“Well, I certainly know I’m skilled,” Aramis laughs, delighted. 

Porthos glances at him over his shoulder and spots where he’s looking, and rolls his eyes, not even ashamed. “Any man would react that way if you’re going to lay your hands on him.” 

“Hush,” Aramis says and would touch a hand to his heart if he wasn’t concerned with staining the fabric with the salve. Not that it matters, since the Paris summer has guaranteed him a ruined tunic, drenched through completely with his sweat. “Can’t you just say something such as: I’m just that talented?”

“You’re just that talented,” Porthos repeats, dry and completely deadpan.

Aramis puffs up regardless, because despite the lack of enthusiasm, Porthos still said as much – and Aramis knows his friend well enough to know that he means it, and is only teasing him. He preens, rightfully he believes, for a few more moments before he waggles his eyebrows once or twice and ducks his head to place a gentle kiss to Porthos’ spine. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he reminds him, smoothing his hands up and down Porthos’ thigh. “First and foremost, my attentions and touches are directed entirely towards these stubbornly knotted muscles. We can take care of other stubborn things later.”

Porthos scoffs. “They’re loosening a little.” 

“I can feel it,” Aramis says and digs his thumbs pointedly into the muscle, eliciting a surprised, pained shout from Porthos. “Breathe, my darling.” 

Porthos hisses out a sharp breath. 

Aramis slides his palms and fingertips, soft and slow, along Porthos’ leg, up from knee to arse in one long, gentle touch. The touch is intimate more than it is medical, and Porthos’ breath hisses out of him in a softer breath this time, shoulders easing from their tenseness and sinking down a little. 

Aramis works in silence after that, focusing on the tense muscle and waiting until it’s loosened properly before pulling back, sliding his hands up over Porthos’ arse just for the enjoyment of Porthos’ hitched breath. And then he starts kneading into his lower back, sweeping his hands up over his shoulder blades and the start of his biceps before drifting back down again, nails scraping down along his spine just for the touch of it, his hand splaying out near the bottom to trace at one of his favorite scars – not favorite so much for the injury of it, for that was yet another moment when he feared for Porthos’ life, but favorite because it was the first one Porthos ever let him attend to, the first one that let Aramis know he was trusted. Is trusted. 

“Halfway done,” Aramis says cheerfully, shifting back so he’s straddling Porthos’ thighs, caring little for the salve smearing over his breeches. He pauses a moment and, upon further reflection, lifts his hands to slide off his suspenders and pulls back to pull off his tunic and toss it aside, half-naked and flushed with warmth, sweat clinging to his back as he works the salve over Porthos’ back, pausing to collect more to coat his hands. He digs in and kneads slowly, pushing at the muscles. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says quietly, more relaxed at this point.

“Tell me where it hurts most.” 

Porthos twists a little, cringing when he does – and Aramis almost scolds him for that – but he reaches out and grasps Aramis’ wrist and guides him to the spot on his back where he can feel the tensed muscles. Aramis nods his understanding and starts his work, movements slow and gentle, long and intimate first, to ease him into relaxing. 

“If you start rutting the mattress, I’ll only feel very accomplished,” Aramis says conversationally, if only to distract Porthos from when he digs his fingers in deep to the muscle. 

Porthos hisses out, but it’s hitched up with a laugh. He rocks his hips back, petulant, just to make Aramis aware of his weight pushing Porthos into the mattress, the soft, warm press of his arse against Aramis’ legs. 

“I have more restraint than that.” 

“But you _are_ horribly impatient,” Aramis counters with a long, dramatic sigh. “I try to romance you and all you want to do is fuck me against the wall.” 

“You like it when I fuck you against the wall,” Porthos mutters out his protest.

“Yes, but that’s beside the point,” Aramis continues on, another long, dramatic sigh punctuating his long-suffering, kneading his hands into his back. “It’s the principle of the thing, my unromantic friend.”

“I can be romantic,” Porthos mutters into the mattress. 

“That’s a bald-faced lie and you know it,” Aramis laughs. 

“I could rub your back once you’re done,” Porthos offers.

“It isn’t romantic if you take your romantic ideas from me,” Aramis says, laughing some more and running his hands up his spine, curling around his shoulders and kneading, leaning in to kiss the back of Porthos’ ear – small and round and perfectly endearing. “Besides, I’m unsure if you’ll be able to fuck me against the wall if you’re all sore like this.” 

Porthos grunts and shudders beneath him, and Aramis grins. 

“I suppose I could ride you once we’re done,” Aramis continues on, knowing he’s being cruel in his teasing, but he also knows that Porthos is the type to take matters into his own hands when Aramis’ teasing becomes too much. So he presses on diligently, kneading his knuckles into the back of Porthos’ neck and working his way down his back. “But you’ll smear all my hard work against your sheets.” 

“Like you care,” Porthos says, voice quiet and definitely interested. 

Aramis grins, and shrugs, even though Porthos can’t see it, and sweeps his hands down along his sides, touching at his hips and then sliding along his lower back again, focusing again on the spot Porthos indicated before. But already Porthos feels more relaxed beneath him, or, at least, more interested in other things that he hardly notices the pain of sore muscles anymore. 

“You’re hard,” Porthos mutters, and rocks his hips back against Aramis’.

Aramis laughs. “Well. What am I meant to do when you let me touch you and all you do is make those noises of yours?”

“What noises?” Porthos mutters, opening his eyes to look at him over his shoulder. 

“Hmm,” Aramis hums and leans down so he’s pressed against his back, flushed, and kisses his shoulder – making only a brief grimace at the taste of the ointment, which isn’t as pleasant as it smells – and then shifts to nuzzle against his jaw. “Shall I demonstrate?” 

He presses his hands deep into his back and Porthos hitches out a breathless moan.

“Yes, like that,” Aramis agrees, and rocks his hips down against Porthos’ arse, pressing up against him, hard against his breeches. Porthos sighs out. “And that, yes.” 

“Ha,” Porthos gasps out, and his lips twist up into an almost shy smile, if also self-satisfied. “You’re relentless.” 

“Me? Never,” Aramis says. “Here I am, trying to help a friend, and all you can think is that I’m here merely to take advantage.” 

“Aren’t you?” Porthos laughs.

“It’s a happy bonus,” Aramis concedes, which he thinks is very gracious of him. Porthos laughs more and Aramis soon joins in, amused and happy. “Tell me, my darling, do you feel taken advantage of?” 

“Fully and completely,” Porthos says, and rocks back against Aramis. Aramis sighs out happily, the hot pulse of his cock through his breeches pressing to the soft curve of Porthos’ backside, slotting up against him as if in invitation. Porthos laughs beneath him, humming out. “You’ll have to take responsibility for leaving me so unfit, Aramis.” 

“And so I shall,” Aramis says, flipping his hair back with a wide smile. “Once I’ve taken sufficient care of your muscles.” 

“There’s one muscle in particular that truly requires your attentions,” Porthos mutters, waggling his eyebrows and wiggling his hips until Aramis laughs and wiggles back, thrusting against Porthos as if already fucking him, his breeches feeling far too tight. 

His hands sweep over him, though, not quite petulant but certainly determined to do what he’s set out to do, and he lets Porthos’ muscles unknot beneath his nimble fingers, ignoring Porthos’ impatient sounds of disapproval at the care and time that Aramis takes. 

“Would you just—” Porthos starts to grit out, but cuts off into a soft gasp when Aramis’ finger suddenly slides down the crease of his arse and presses into him without warning, coated with the warming ointment to ease the movement. “ _Fuck_.”

“What was that, love?” Aramis asks, innocently enough, shifting off him and settling astride his thighs again, pressing his finger into him and hooking in a way that he knows always gets Porthos to keen. He’s rewarded with that sound a moment later and he smiles, working his finger into him slowly, torturously slow – he knows just how to tease Porthos to the brink of his patience. He hums out, quiet and thoughtful, “Shall I stop and focus on your muscles, do you think? I’d hate for you to be sore in the morning.”

“You keep doing that and you know I’m gonna be sore,” Porthos mutters, but doesn’t sound the least bit angry. In fact, he shimmies his hips a little instead, all with the effort to draw Aramis down deeper into him. Aramis obeys him, stroking his finger into him with practiced ease, delighting in the way Porthos shifts and moves beneath him, rocking back to meet him. 

Aramis keeps his moves quick and succinct, stroking into Porthos with practiced ease but with the kind of teasing he knows will drive Porthos wild: the pace set, not adding a second finger right away, hooking his finger just a little so that Porthos’ shoulders shudder and his back arches. 

Aramis hums out thoughtfully to himself as he does that, stroking his finger in and moving his free hand to drag down over his back, kneading into his shoulder blades and down over the bumps of his spine, ignoring (secretly delighting) in the soft sounds of protest Porthos makes, both pleased and frustrated by Aramis’ general slow pace. 

“Are you going to actually rut against your bed?” Aramis asks, cheerfully.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Porthos laughs, and then gasps out when Aramis draws his hand back, finally, and slides in a second finger to join the first. 

Aramis begins the process anew, stroking slowly and gently into him, hooking his fingers occasionally but mostly just working at a steady pace, sliding in, pulling back, and pushing back in again. 

He grins a little, just a touch desperate to coax more sounds from Porthos’ slackened lips. He isn’t disappointed, because Porthos moans quietly when he spread his fingers inside him, arching back a little. Aramis watches him tip his head back to look at him, both desperate and annoyed by the teasing, swallowing – and Aramis watches the curve of his throat, watches the way his adam’s apple bobs as he draws in a shaky breath. 

He smiles a little, watching him, pressing his two fingers into him, feeling just how tight he is, how worked up he is from something so simple as this, and he feels that deep, steady thrill at doing this for him, pressing down against his thighs, his free hand kneading into his lower back, working at the muscles still while ensuring the tight coil of pleasure in Porthos’ stomach with each gentle, teasing stroke of his fingers. 

“Tease,” Porthos gasps out when Aramis slides his fingers out, just prodding a little, stroking over him before pressing back in again, decidedly slower than Porthos would ever be able to do to him in turn. Aramis grins now, wicked, as he pumps his fingers into Porthos, pressing down against his thigh, rocking his hips forward in time to his torturously slow pace, his cock dragging along the line of his thigh through his breeches. He strokes his free hand along the base of his spine, in the little dimples of his back, along the slope of his arse and down over his thigh, squeezing and shifting over the muscles, just touching over him. 

“Shall I stop, if it’s too much?” Aramis asks pleasantly. “There are still a few kinks to work out in your back, I think. You’re far too tense, love.” 

Porthos purposefully relaxes beneath him, breathing out through clenched teeth. Aramis presses his fingers in, deep, searching out his prostate and then relentless with his slow strokes once he finds it. Porthos makes a sound that is decidedly a whine – although he would deny as much – and rocks his hips back against Aramis’ hand. 

Aramis hums out, leaning down and kissing at one hip, ignoring the bitter taste of salve in favor of nuzzling at his lower back, kissing a bump of his spine. 

“Would you fucking fuck me?” Porthos groans out, more frustration than pleasure. 

Aramis sighs. “So unromantic.” 

But he also obeys him, stroking his fingers up into him, harder now, stretching him even as he teases him. Porthos starts moving, more firmly now, fucking himself on Aramis’ hand, thrusting himself down onto them with abandon, and Aramis aches to touch him all over, to just bury himself in Porthos now – and can’t help but smile a little at his own impatience winning out. 

He flexes his hand until Porthos curses quietly, shoving down deeper onto his hand, moaning – and then he moans Aramis’ name, that same beautiful mix of frustration and pleasure that Aramis can never get enough of, and Aramis pulls back enough to watch Porthos rock back, riding against his hand as if it were his cock, and Aramis bites his lip to hold back his laugh, to muffle his smile, and smoothes his free hand down over Porthos’ thigh. 

“Get your goddamn breeches off,” Porthos grits out, looking at him from over his shoulder. “And fuck me.” 

“You are rather demanding tonight, my darling,” Aramis sighs, but also eagerly reaches to undo the ties of his breeches with his free hand, shimmying out of them without removing his thrusting hand from inside of Porthos. 

And then Porthos reaches back, gropes blindly – hitting Aramis rather hard in the hip in his quest to find his cock – and Aramis laughs as Porthos makes a soft sound of frustrated protest and twists around to look at him, reaching back to grasp his cock, the angle somewhat awkward, before squeezing a little and stroking. Aramis shudders happily despite it all and rocks up into his hand, stroking one hand over Porthos’ flank in encouragement, pressing into the tight fist of his hand. 

“I’m gonna just fall asleep for want of something to do if you don’t hurry up,” Porthos says, circling his fingertips over the tip of Aramis’ cock, and Aramis cracks up if only because he knows it’s a lie but also knows his darling fool of a man is impatient until the end of time, and he’s teased him quite enough for one night, all things considered. For now at least.

“Well, you have been behaving,” Aramis muses with a dramatic sigh, flipping his hair back a little as he rocks his hips forward slowly into Porthos’ hand. “But who wouldn’t when I’m giving them such a lovely massage?” 

“You said it was for medical purposes.” 

“I was most certainly lying,” Aramis sighs. “It’s hardly my fault if, yet again, you fail to notice the romance.” 

“I notice plenty,” Porthos snorts, and tugs on Aramis’ cock, stroking it harder, thumb dragging down along the underside, just the way Aramis likes – and Aramis’ mouth goes a little slack for half a moment before he controls himself. 

Aramis pulls his hand back and Porthos groans at the loss of it. His hips shudder a little and Aramis leans down, kissing the back of his neck. “It’s alright.” 

He shifts closer, presses up against him, cock sliding into the cleft of his arse and pressing there. Aramis strokes his hand over his side and hip, then slides it down between the two of them, curling around himself to guide his cock up against Porthos, nuzzling into his back as he rocks forward just the tiniest bit, just enough for his cock to slide in with little protest and fanfare, Porthos open and pliant beneath him. He can feel the shift and slide of his muscles beneath his cheek as Porthos shifts to accommodate him, and he shushes him when he makes an impatient sound at Aramis’ caution. Aramis, through it all, is always decidedly cautious when entering Porthos – never, ever wishing to be a source of pain. He knows it drives Porthos crazy, but turnabout is fair play since Aramis has gotten unspeakably impatient at Porthos’ insistence at treating him with care when the roles are reversed. Aramis always loves the slick slide of pleasure and pain that follows accommodating Porthos. Porthos, however, tends to treat him as if it is always the first time. 

Aramis cups Porthos’ hip, drawing it up a little so he can curl his arm easily around his middle, hand splayed across his stomach as he drapes over him. He waits for an excruciating moment before he shifts his hips forward and Porthos makes a soft little moan, rolling his hips back to meet him. Aramis slides into him all the way inside, bottoming out with a soft groan of pleasure. 

“Definitely going to be sore,” Porthos mutters and Aramis laughs loudly, delighted. 

“I’ll just have to massage your backside in the morning,” Aramis says, and waggles his eyebrows when he catches Porthos’ incredulous look. 

This time, Porthos snorts out a loud laugh, and rocks his hips back hard against him. “Or I’ll just return the favor.” 

“Mmmm, I look forward to it,” Aramis purrs out. “Shall I move, love?” 

“Yeah, go already,” Porthos says with a grin, and rocks his hips back in encouragement. 

Aramis cups his hip with one hand, holding him up with the other, and starts rocking into him now, steadily, sighing out his contentment at the easy way in which Porthos rises to meet him, the two of them moving together in tandem, long since used to one another, long since familiar with what the other wants. 

“You’re feeling alright? Not too knotted up?” Aramis asks as he thrusts in a few short bursts, then slides in deeper, burying inside of Porthos. 

Porthos, for his part, just snorts. Loudly. “The hell kinda question is that to ask me when we’re like this?”

“I like to be thorough,” Aramis sniffs and then thrusts in sharply, eliciting a small gasp from Porthos. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Porthos laughs, rocking back against him. “Thought you were gonna ride me, though.” 

“I am, in a way,” Aramis laughs back, and shifts so he can curl both arms around him, pulling Porthos up a little as he drapes down over his back, thrusting into him and sliding his hands down his chest and stomach, one drifting down to curl around his cock and stroke in time to his thrusts. “Is it good?” 

“What do you think?” Porthos groans out as he thrusts into his hand. 

Aramis grins, squeezes his cock, and keeps up the pace – faster now, more something to pacify Porthos before he starts crying foul that Aramis is, yet again, being a teasing bastard. It’s just as well, though, since it only takes a few strokes of his hand and a few rocks of his hips before Porthos is coming with a shuddering breath. Aramis feels the slickness against his hand in addition to the lingering salve, and he smiles against Porthos’ shoulder as he slows his pace down, riding out his own pleasure at a much more leisurely speed. It takes a little while to follow after him, feeling Porthos go pliant beneath him, but eventually he does come with a low moan, nipping at Porthos’ shoulder and neck, and thrusting deeply into him until he’s spent. 

Once he pulls out of him, fetches a towel to clean them both up, and collapsed into a cuddley heap into Porthos’ waiting arms, Aramis is feeling quite relaxed and pleased with himself, nuzzling against Porthos’ chest. 

“Did you need anything else? Something to drink?” Aramis asks, draping himself over him, curling their legs together so that he’s pressed up quite nicely to Porthos. 

Porthos snorts, softly, eyes closed and thoroughly relaxed. “Like you’re gonna get up after all that.” 

“You never know. I’m feeling charitable.” 

Porthos laughs. “Is that what it is?” 

“Certainly,” Aramis says, sniffing in mock disdain, and traces his fingertips over Porthos’ chest, brushing at his chest hair and tracing over his scars. “Do you feel alright?”

“Mm,” Porthos hums out, clearly only half-listening, his usual sleepiness-after-sex catching up to him. Aramis smiles affectionately at him, fond and doting. “Yeah. I feel good.” 

“I’m glad,” Aramis says, and leans up, kissing along the scar that jags down Porthos’ face, and smiles indulgently when Porthos nuzzles against his jaw. 

“Should pull muscles more often if this is the kind of nursemaid I’ll get,” Porthos says with a laugh, dragging his lips over Aramis’ jaw, kissing him. 

Aramis snorts, and kisses his nose, caught up in his own bout of indulgence. “You’re just spoiled.” 

“Maybe,” Porthos agrees, and shrugs – and not the least bit concerned.


End file.
